Mercy's Reach
by NanoNick
Summary: There's another side to war than that of the soldiers. Follow Lykus as he works with Mercy, a refugee camp trapped outside of the climate controlled hive city of Acre. With no objective other than to survive, Mercy struggles day by day, hoping for some form of relief. In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only war.


One of our scouting parties found a body in the frozen wastes yesterday. It wasn't just any body. It was a body that made us feel absolute dread. It was an astarte initiate. A space marine recruit. He was freshly dead, his neck having been torn open, steam still puffing from the wounds. We were able to salvage his bolt pistol, but the rest of his equipment was too damaged to be used for anything other than scrap.

What was strange, was the fact that there was an astarte dead in the middle of nowhere. We knew the Imperium would be trying to get a foothold on the planet, we knew our SOS calls had been heard, but we had yet to see or hear anything. Then we find the dead astarte. Not only was that weird in its own rite, dead astartes are usually claimed, no matter what. Their gene-seed, their genetic makeup, it was far too valuable to the chapters they belonged to.

Had the scouting party arrived just on time, when whatever attacked and killed the astarte forced a retreat on the other space marines? Or was there something else happening here? There were daemons roaming the frozen wastes, that much was for sure. There had been for awhile. But was there anything really that sinister that could inflict such injury onto an astarte?

We ended up bolstering the defenses of our camp ten times over after the discovery of that body. With camp population now reaching over 400 men, women and children, and with straggling refugees being rescued from the wastes everyday, we also decided on a name for the camp: Mercy.

Mercy wasn't amazing by any means. Constructed in the middle of the frozen forests to the far north of the climate-controlled hive city of Acre, Mercy did what it could to keep itself alive. A simple wall constructed of scavenged metal surrounded the camp, and a makeshift thick metal gate stood at the front of the camp. Inside the walls stood simple log cabins, crude metal shacks, and other various constructions that served some purpose. Fire pits dotted the camp, and were dug deep into the ground, allowing some semblance of heat without too much smoke, keeping the location of Mercy hidden.

The miniscule population of Mercy stood inside these walls. While the population DID contain a few guardsman from Acre that defected during the incident, the rest were by no means fighters. The majority of the population consisted of simple laborers, businessman, and other workers of the service industry. Many were sick or injured, and all were terrified. Nobody knew how long it would be until Mercy was discovered. Nobody knew how long they would be able to survive in the frozen wastes. The situation seemed to no longer be a matter of "if", but a matter of "when". If the planetary governor's patrols didn't find them and snuff them out, the horrible daemons he brought forth would.

We're able to fight back, of course. We've been able to repurpose and train a few men and women how to use weapons, but we're still nowhere near as trained as a guardsman would be. Our weapons are crude, consisting of old stub rifles, a few lasguns, and two rusty plasma rifles ready to explode at any minute. We're outgunned and outmanned in this situation.

This, however, hasn't prevented ANY success. Our scouts have been able to successfully destroy several patrols that drew too close with guerilla tactics, and we were able to preserve and capture their armor, weapons and supplies. Last week, we even ambushed a convoy that was searching for the missing patrols, we ended up coming home with medicine, ammunition, weapons and food. It cost us a few lives, but at the same time, it cleared up space in the camp, and brought us plenty of supplies. Their sacrifice was not in vain. Not yet.

As the population buzzed about the camp, taking care of their daily responsibilities, Atticus, a salaryman turned guerilla-fighter, sat down next to a fresh refugee, a young man in his 20s. Atticus was the one who had founded Mercy with his family, and he was the one who guided many others here. He was a very generous man, but quite stern. He wasn't one to sugarcoat things. The pair sat on a log embedded in the snow and ice, rubbing their hands together and holding them to the fire.

"How're you holding up?" Atticus asked the young man, placing a hand on his back.

"I'm holding." The young man responded. "Still a bit shocked. But I'm holding." Atticus patted him on the back before drawing his hand away. "How long have you guys been out here?"

"Oh, I reckon about 7 months or so now." Atticus answered. He pointed to one of the many buildings within the camp. "We've actually got a timekeeper in that building there. Funny how one loses track of time out here. I tend to check it every day."

"And how long do you think we'll be able to stay here?" The young man asked.

"Hard to say. The warm months are coming, and when all of this frost melts, we'll have a harder time staying hidden. Hunting, scavenging, and foraging will be much easier, but it won't matter when the patrols start reaching into the forests. Our best hope is to wait for the Imperium. Or a miracle."

"I see. Thank you. I'll return to work in just a moment." The young man stated. Atticus stood up and cracked his knuckles.

"Take your time. We're in no hurry. As long as the work gets completed by sundown, then it's alright." He finished, walking towards me.

"How's everyone today?" He asked, outreaching a hand. I took hold of it, shook it, and looked him in the eyes.

"Cold, but well. The two guardsman, Piers and Capp, they're almost ready to go back to work. Give em' a day or two more, and they should be all set. I'd strongly suggest placing them on sentry duty before sending them on another raiding or searching party, however." I answered truthfully. It was strange this week. No severe injuries or grievous sickness. It was still extremely cold, but temperatures were rising ever-so slightly.

Everyone was eating well, there were no work-related disasters, none of our guerilla fighters had been killed, shit, the only thing I had to deal with this week was the situation with Piers and Capp, and they had only come down with common colds. Only thing I had to do for them was sit them by a fire and hand them soup.

"Excellent news. You do good work, Lykus. I suppose it is then my duty to inform you of the following," He started, putting a hand on my shoulder. "We're organizing a raiding party. Achilles and Andreia will be leading the group. We're taking half of the guardsman we have, and we're taking several of our best guerrillas. We need you to go with them."

Of course. I was the camp doctor, although I've never spent a day in medical school in my life. Before the incident in Acre, I was a bartender for a ritzy club in the market district. I suppose the precision needed when mixing the drinks that I worked with translated nicely to the precision needed to administer certain medicines. I also knew CPR, so, there's that. The majority of the medical skills I've picked up over the past 6 months have come from experience, similarly to how someone takes apart vehicle parts or electronic remotes, only, I had live, hurt people that I needed to fix.

Some lived, and some died. That's just how it worked. I liked to tell myself that, that those who died hadn't died without purpose. I liked to tell myself that I had learned something from their deaths, something I can use on those who may become injured or sick in the future. I didn't like to think about the fact that most of these deaths were preventable. I comforted myself at night by telling myself there was nothing I could've done, but the thought persists: I'm no doctor. I've inadvertently killed people, and I will continue to do so. But if I don't try, then everyone dies. It's a tough pill to swallow, no pun intended.

"I'll go. When do we leave?" I asked.

"After the sun sets. Go see the quartermaster, I'm not sending you unarmed and defenseless. Thank you, friend." He said, gesturing for me to head out.

The quartermaster must have been expecting me, as my equipment was laid out on the rusty table made of what was once the door to an armored personnel carrier. The table held quite the loadout: A tarnished green helmet with a faded metal eagle on the front, a single thick winter coat that'd come down to my knees, made of a scuffed leather, an old stub pistol, all surrounded by layers of clothes and a few clips of ammunition.

I gave the quartermaster my thanks as I left his shack, and headed towards mine. I'd only seen combat a few times, and it's certainly not something I'm good at. My hand shakes, my aim is pitiful, and my tactical mind could be outplayed by one of those chess-playing chickens. There are no 'buts' here. I am not a soldier. I am not good at any particular parts of combat. I'm not even a good medic. I'm only going to help those that I can, and if I can save one life from thirty deaths, then I am satisfied.

There are no heroes among us. Even in the guardsman we have. There is nobody who will draw their blade, charge forward screaming some prayer, and overcome all foes. There is no latent psychic among us. There is no "chosen one". We are cold, scared, average human beings, being hunted by treacherous humans and terrifying demons. There is no victory in this situation. There is only the chance to run, and even now, that window is closing. All we can do is survive for as long as we can.


End file.
